


Night [1920]

by guilty_heroes



Series: Us [5]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, F/M, Nightmares, Period Piece, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:21:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25115302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guilty_heroes/pseuds/guilty_heroes
Summary: Percy tries to sleep away his troubles. They don't let him.
Relationships: Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson, Luke Castellan/Annabeth Chase
Series: Us [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1655437
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	Night [1920]

**Night** **[1920]**

He walked into the command tent a complete disaster. There was still alcohol on his breath, which could or couldn’t be worse than the fact that his canteen was overflowing with Russian vodka. His superiors eyed him with suspicion. He tried to act normal.

“Jackson.”

Percy’s head shot up. He knew that voice. Standing in front of him, a severe look painted over his face, was his father. His father looked formal and proper in his naval uniform. Out of place, in the shitty, muddy trenches, but infinitely more in place than Percy ever would be here.

_ First Lord of the Admiralty _ .

His father was going to be it. For sure. After Gallipoli, after Churchill’s disaster, he  _ had  _ to be. Everyone said so. 

“Father?” Percy had no clue why he was here. Last he heard, his father was in London. So why was he here, in the mortal hell of the Somme?

“I see you’ve cleaned up well.” His father was not pleased.

Percy’s breathing slowed as he struggled to keep the world in order. He knew he shouldn’t be afraid. His father was proud of him. He had told him as much. Percy was a war hero now.

HIs father was proud.

“I… I had a rough morning.”

“I can see. Your rough morning is all over your shirt.”

Percy flinched at the tone. He fiddled with his locket. The other officers assembled around the table blurred together, watched him, judged him.

“Do you have the plans ready?” His father asked.

“Yes!” Percy moved quickly to present his plan to the council. Surveying the map, Percy began his presentation.

The room listened intently throughout. The room was silent throughout. Percy’s palms would not stop sweating throughout.

He finally stopped talking a few minutes later and waited for a response. He couldn’t meet his father’s eyes. He waited for what felt like forever for a response.

The room erupted into laughter. In an instant, the room was filled with raucous, mocking laughter. Percy’s eyes watered and he reached for his canteen. He stopped himself, though, and went to search for his father. Their mirror-image eyes caught, for only an instant. His father’s eyes were cold and distant in a way they had never been before.

“You think this is a good idea?” As his commander spoke, Percy trained his vision on him. The commander could barely speak through his laughter. “This is a foolish plan. Do you know how many men you will kill with this horrid plan?”

Percy shrunk back at the abuse. 

“No wonder Annabeth didn’t want you.” Percy blinked, stunned. When his eyes opened again, the commander had taken the form of Luke. Just the sound of his precocious voice led Percy’s fist to clench. He couldn’t even look at Luke as he spoke. “You’re a fool. A complete idiot. And look at this plan! You’re worse than a fool — you’re a murderer! An egomaniac who wants to slaughter his men for a medal. How many graves will you trade for that piece of bronze on your chest? You’re not a war hero — you’re a fraud.”

Percy’s tears were flowing down his face, unhindered by any restraint, any notion of facing the abuse like a man. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the abuse. There was blood trickling down his clenched palm. His feet bounced due to his overactive nerves. 

“He’s not wrong, you know.” Her voice was as angelic as he remembered it, even if she was berating him. Percy’s eyes shot wide open. Standing with her arm around Luke’s waist, in the middle of Percy’s view, Annabeth stood as beautiful as he remembered her. Her blonde hair glowed like gold in the lamplight. She snarled at him, then gave Luke a picturesque smile.

“You left me alone,” she began, turning back to him. The disgust on her face made him choke. “You  _ left me _ to lead countless men to their death? To strut around like a peacock with all your gleaming medals? Medals begot with your men’s blood!” Annabeth, his once-best friend, spat at him. 

A scowl stretched across her face, tearing at the seams of her cheeks. Her arm dropped from Luke’s waist, her gaze firmly on Percy. No, not Percy. Percy’s medal. __

_ Begot with blood. Your men’s blood. _

Each step she took towards him sounded like cannon fire. Not cannon fire when you were running No Man’s Land. That was muted, covered up by men yelling, crying, machine guns rippling, bullets ricocheting, flesh disintegrating. No, Annabeth’s footfalls were like when you sat next to a cannon. The gun would expel everything else from the air, consuming it, so greedy. 

“You  _ left me _ .” Her finger accused his medal. “You don’t deserve this.” Her fingers encircled the medal, tugging at the bronze. “You’re not a hero.” 

Percy couldn’t say anything in reply. His voice was lost in his throat, his plan disintegrating. Instead he choked on the word “no,” which filled his mouth like vodka. It was as repulsive. But soon “no” turned to “please”. But she heard neither. 

“No hero,” the room said. Percy looked up, eyes wide with terror. 

“You left me.” Annabeth’s voice was softer this time. A tear slipped down her face. “No hero,” she repeated in a toneless utterance. Her hand yanked off the bronze.

Sweat mingled with tears on his pillow. The white sheets had been thoroughly soaked. The girl that had been lying next to him was, fortunately, a heavy sleeper and was undisturbed. Sighing, Percy reached for the familiar glass of whiskey on his nightstand. He finished what was left of it in loud gulps.

His breathing returned to normal. His heart rate declined. His body temperature leveled off. 

_ Deep breaths _ .

He looked at the brunette sleeping right next to him.

Percy had no idea what had happened last night. There was nothing in him either that wanted to learn. As far as he knew, her name was Cassandra or Nicea or Elle or something that didn’t start with an A or sound like Annabeth or —. She probably had come back with him from the bar or club or wherever he had ended up last night. She’d be gone before noon and her name and history wouldn’t matter anymore.

He slipped out of bed and stepped to his desk. Letters, unopened after a week or two or three of sitting on his desk, covered the old wood. He reached for a bottom drawer, pulling out a nice bottle of Scotch his father had sent him years ago. He uncorked it and took a deep swig. Then another. And another. 

He put it back, happy with himself for his restraint. Buying another of those bottles — his father’s birthday present had cost him quite a lot — would put a dent in his allowance. Percy fell back into bed, trying to let the alcohol take him to sleep. 

The girl hadn't woken up.


End file.
